


Their Leaves May Fall, But They Regrow

by AnonymousDandelion



Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Doublespeak, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Metaphors, flufftober outtake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousDandelion/pseuds/AnonymousDandelion
Summary: “I’ve told the plants what I think about sssspotss!” Crowley hisses, savage. “It had one job to do, and it messssed it up. It has to be punished. It should have done better. It’s a disssappointment and a failure and a worthlesss—”He breaks off, seeing Aziraphale staring at him, too-perceptive eyes wide and comprehending and horror-stricken.“No.No.Never worthless,” the angel breathes.~ ~ ~Aziraphale walks in on Crowley and his houseplants.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 234
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens, Flufftober 2020, Flufftober2020





	Their Leaves May Fall, But They Regrow

**Author's Note:**

> Aaand here we are once again — for the third time this month, my hand slipped while trying to write a drabble for [Ineffable Flufftober 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957708) and I wound up with a well-over-drabble-length short story. The prompt this sprang from was Day 25, "Resilience"; for the other, "official" ficlet that I ended up writing for that prompt, see [ Do You Think They’ll Be All Right?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194131).

Crowley is in the process of putting the Fear of Crowley into an errant and violently trembling snake plant (and, by dint of association and proximity, instilling and reinforcing said Fear in its numerous potted colleagues as well) when Aziraphale walks into the room.

It is still a new phenomenon, this practice of the angel coming freely and unannounced into Crowley’s flat — albeit, generally speaking, one that is more than welcome. The newness is, however, most likely the reason it didn’t occur to Crowley before this moment to worry about the possibility of being interrupted in the midst of a tantrum.

“—and you _know_ I will not tolerate this kind of behavior, you—”

“Crowley? What are you doing?”

Crowley freezes, does a brief but incredibly realistic simulation of a guilty puppy caught in the act of demolishing the upholstery, then pulls himself together enough to produce a slightly more convincingly demonic glower. “I’m busy. Dealing with _this_ disaster.“

He indicates the unfortunate snake plant with an accusatory jab of a finger, accompanied by a forceful glare. The botanical trembling in the room increases and intensifies.

“Ah. The plant. I see.” Aziraphale’s tone makes it clear that the angel does _not_ in fact see, not in the least. “May I look at it, please?”

Crowley hesitates for a moment, then — unable to think of a reasonable justification for saying no — gives his grudging permission. “If you really want to, I guess you can. Waste of your time, though, angel, I’m warning you. It’s a hopeless case.”

Brow furrowed, Aziraphale leans close to examine the quivering plant, scrupulously turning over and inspecting each leaf with the same degree of gentle, reverential, attentive care he would give to a priceless first edition of an ancient literary work including a personalized note and signature from the author.

Finally, Aziraphale releases the snake plant and steps back, looking vaguely concerned and extremely puzzled, and turns again to Crowley. “I’m sorry, dear boy, I assure you I don’t mean to be obtuse, but… what exactly is wrong with it? I know you know much more about plants than I do, of course, but this really looks healthy enough to me. Just a couple spots, that’s all.”

Helpless in its flowerpot, the culpable snake plant shakes even harder at the mention of its offenses. At the moment, however, neither demon nor angel is paying much attention to anything except each other.

“I’ve _told_ the plants what I think about sssspotss!” Crowley hisses, savage. “It had _one_ job to do, and it _messssed it up_. It has to be punished. It should have done _better_. It’s a disssappointment and a failure and a worthlesss—”

He breaks off, seeing Aziraphale staring at him, too-perceptive eyes wide and comprehending and horror-stricken.

“No. _No_. Never worthless,” the angel breathes.

Crowley stiffens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flatly.

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you _don’t_.”

Eyes still intent and fixed on Crowley, Aziraphale shakes his head — slowly at first, then again, faster and more insistent. “A spot doesn’t equate to failure, Crowley. And besides, I’m sure it will regrow if given half a chance. All it needs is some time and light and…” His voice cracks; he takes a quick breath, then finishes the sentence. “And care.”

“Hah.” The dry half-laugh Crowley utters sounds more bitter than amused.

“I mean it. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about—” Aziraphale hesitates. “About plants. Their resilience. They… their leaves may _fall_ , but they get back up again. They grow back, I mean. And they’re still so strong, and brave, and clever, and… and beautiful.”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale. “Strong and brave and clever and beautiful,” he repeats, eyebrows engaging in an extraordinarily expressive yet entirely indecipherable sequence of acrobatics.

“ _Yes_. Ever since the Beginning.”

There is a heavy silence, the words hanging in the air.

“Er. The plants, of course, that is. Obviously,” Aziraphale appends weakly.

“The plants. Of course. Obviously.”

The weight of the silence lightens only a little.

Finally, Crowley sighs, long and gusty. “For someone who spent years as a gardener, Aziraphale, I don’t think you know very much about horticulture.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together. “Sometimes it takes an outside perspective to be able to see to the obvious.”

“You think so, do you?” The question is sarcastic, but perhaps it’s also something more.

“I _know_ so.”

Their gazes stay locked for several tense seconds longer. Finally, Crowley looks away and asks an inconsequential question about the bookshop. Aziraphale accepts the subject change with good grace. Neither mentions either houseplants or resilience again that day.

But curiously, the houseplants observe, even after Aziraphale eventually leaves the flat Crowley does not return to snarling at the offending snake plant. Nor does he take it through the dreaded ritual of goodbye.

What he _does_ do is look at the snake plant for a long, long moment, pick up its flowerpot — paying no heed at all to its quaking, nor to the terrified rustling emanating from all around the room — and then, as its compatriots watch in nervous wonder, stalk across the room to place it in a new spot, closer to a window.

Then Crowley sits down on his white leather sofa, and stares at a blank television screen for a long time.

And if once or twice or thrice he mutters under his breath “strong and brave and clever and beautiful,” in a voice that speaks of something other than bitterness, and with a strange quirk to his lips that suggests something in addition to amusement, the houseplants aren’t going to tell on him.

Near the window, the snake plant leans tentatively into a beam of sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading! Hearing from the void always makes my day, if you are inclined to leave a comment.  
> Be well, folks.


End file.
